


North Star

by hauntedpoem



Series: Maglor through the ages [4]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Child Legolas, Loneliness, Other, Parent Thranduil, Possibly Pre-Slash, Protective Thranduil, Storytelling, Switching Between Tenses, Tauriel's mother was called Tauriel, Winter in Mirkwood, a lot of affection and parental tenderness, and a lot of bonding, baths and hair braiding, don't get confused, gen - Freeform, injured Maglor, just have a glass of wine, light sharing, post Angmar, secret gardens, song of the trees, wine drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-01
Updated: 2017-02-01
Packaged: 2018-09-21 09:47:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9542348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hauntedpoem/pseuds/hauntedpoem
Summary: It wasn’t privilege he sought but company.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a while ago. It was intended as a Christmas story but it turned out differently. I tinkered with it for a while and then I said to myself, why not? I think a bit of writer's block got to me so publishing old fics is the solution, right?  
> Again, this was an excuse for me to write Thranduil, Maglor and Legolas interacting in some way. I have lots of fics like these. There's no actual point to them, just snippets and aesthetics. And probably a lot of nonsensical paragraphs.  
> -It wasn’t privilege he sought but company.- This is a line from Sally Potter's 1992 movie, Orlando. Check out Virginia Woolf's Orlando, I read her works while still working on my English. Orlando is probably my favorite.  
> -  
> In my fic, wood elves and Telerin elves(in general) are able to hear the song of the forest, the whispers of the trees. Every elf has a particular song, one that tells their personal story. I got inspired by Ziggy's fic of epic proportions, [" The Sons of Thunder"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/467602/chapters/807993).

Thranduil began washing his son’s hair only to notice that the majority of the candles surrounding the pool have melted into halves. A few have completely extinguished, releasing a dying smoke into the high ceiling. Intermingling with the heavy incense and the perfume of the bathing oils, they created a dreamy atmosphere. He ran his finger lightly on the child’s scalp, detangling and lathering the blond tresses.

“Close your eyes, my leaf.” He poured the water from a pitcher slowly, carefully, even though nothing could pass through Legolas’ tightly pressed palms.

“Is it over, Adar?”

“You can look now, leafling.”

He finished by rinsing Legolas’ hair and then wringing it into a single coil. Legolas looked at him with bleary eyes and finally relaxed into his arms. This time, there were no unwanted incidents like soap getting into his eyes or trinkets getting lost in the water. He yawned with satisfaction as he pulled his father closer to him. He had deceptively strong arms for an elfling.

“No more playing with the swans?”

Legolas shook his head. Drops of water landed everywhere.

“Ada? Ada, tell me a story. Please?” He urged into his father’s chest.

Thranduil released the sodden sponge, after scrubbing dazedly at the invisible grime on his own hand and ended up talking about the birth of the stars of Varda. So much could be said about it that Legolas gave up and fell asleep. Without the eager audience, he shifted the child with ease and lifted him on his thighs. Still clad in his breeches, now sodden and uncomfortable, Thranduil tried to get out of the pool without making a mess of the floors. He loved spending time with his son, playing with him and evading sleep and as much as he would have complied with every of his requests, he knew his responsibilities as a father came first.

Little Legolas was already in reverie, safe and warm, his head resting on his father’s chest. Wet from head to toe, Thranduil resembled more a character of the folktales rather than the revered king of Greenwood. His reflection in the mirror was that of a wild and rakish man: his woodland crown askew, white tunic embroidered with acorn leaves heavy with water, doeskin breeches crumpled and wet, the material probably ruined by his overextended stay in the water. His hair, usually elegantly straight was now dishevelled and curling at the ends. He smiled. Few got to see him like this.

With practiced ease, he lifted the elfling from the warm water and supported his head on his shoulder, careful not to transform the polished marble floor and everything around them into sodden disarray. As he reached the marble platform surrounding the pool, his fingers were blindly searching for a soft towel and draped it slowly over the still sleeping child.

Thranduil started drying his son’s hair and then engulfed the delicate body in a long silken robe to preserve as much heat as possible. The elfling's chamber was part of his suite, yet this night he decided he couldn't part with his vulnerable son and so he placed him onto his bed, atop warm, supple wool covers and among huge feathered pillows. The rest of the covers and coverlets, he pushed away, and for a moment, they shone like molten gold in the twilight of the chamber. The room was suffused for a while in dark oranges and earthy hues as the fire crackled and leapt giddily as it consumed a particularly resilient log.

Legolas lay asleep in the comfort of soft sheets and fluffy blankets. He was dreaming. Thranduil wished his child would never have to know hardship. That no harm would ever come his way. No poisonous spider or cursed orc. No sickness and no poverty. No hunger and no instability. He wished his child would never feel the pain of craving, that he would never yearn for anything. It won't be easy for the son of the king of the once verdant Woodland kindgom which was now turning into Mirkwood, a realm slowly corrupted by Sauron’s sickness and depravity. He released a shuddering breath. He could care less if he grew cold and the tunic stuck to his back as a second, uncomfortable skin. At least, his son was peaceful.

His movements were always gentle, full of love and attention. Before anything else, he was a father to his only child; perhaps that’s why the people loved him. They knew that he would never lead them astray, that everything he did, he did with their safety in mind. He continued drying Legolas’ body and checking upon every limb of the miniature elf before him, then took a petite arm into his own and most gingerly started applying a thin coat of balm on what seemed to be a nascent bruise.

Immediately, the strain in his brow dissolved as he observed how the child’s skin came to life, the pure elvish light from his own ancient soul mingling with the young one's shining light, accelerating the healing process. His little Leafling, always true to his name, liked spending his time as much as possible high up in the trees, playing between their branches and more often than ever was bound to slip and injure himself, for in the cold season, even the good old oak in their enclosed little garden became though of bark, his branches cold and slippery and his stance unfriendly even to the sweetest elfling in Greenwood. As angry as he was at the mere idea of harm and pain touching his son, the Elvenking accepted that it was time Legolas learnt to stay away from the icy trees for the rest of the cold season. He bent down to place a loving kiss on the child's arm and wrapped his moonlight hair into a warm, silken towel. With utmost care and dedication, he covered the little body in the softest blankets on the bed and forgetting completely about himself, he simply snuggled near the already sleeping form, placed a protective arm around Legolas and drifted into reverie.

From a distance, the two elves looked as if shrouded in a veil made entirely of Anor's most sublime glow, their spirit light as beautiful as the generous spring. The illumination of the two fëar intermingled and playfully shaped each other as the two sleeping elves, father and son, explored the mysterious lands of Irmo, the Vala. They usually demanded the same dream from him: one of a smiling elleth he imagined to be his mother, the other, of the wife that he got to know but for too short a time.

 

***

He woke up in a shiver, which was most unusual. The first thing his eyes focused on was the serene form of his child. His hand went straight to his son's forehead and checked if the sudden coldness of the room caught up to Legolas. It didn't. He sighed reassured. The fire died in the hearth and the candles must have burned for hours, now struggling as already dying lights, just stumps of wax, ready to be replaced. Although it was shadowy in the chamber, Thranduil's eyes adjusted just fine, already penetrating the darkness. Icy, pale blue eyes like the sky over the jagged Misty Mountains, turned into a stormy colour. Thranduil’s eyes were like gems of unrivalled beauty, their ever-changing hues reflecting his mood, a constant giveaway whenever he was about to lose his temper. With effortless grace, he disentangled from the form of his son.

He was accustomed to treating his body purposefully, like an instrument, nothing more. With damp clothes still freezing his skin, his long hair tightly tied, curling at the ends. Thranduil felt an uncommon chill run along his spine and his long, sinewy neck started to hurt. Once again, he tucked his son under more covers creating a cocoon of warmth and softness around him. This was his priority, not his cramping neck. With utmost care, Thranduil rose and as tall as he was, he immediately reached for the curtains around the bed to trap some of the vanishing warmth. At last, he made his way to the fire, rekindling it with a generous armful of wood.

The last thing he wanted was for Legolas to wake up alone in a completely dark and cold room without his Adar. Sleep was now lost on the king and thus, he took upon himself the job of his servants and lit a new set of candles, instantly illuminating the chamber and then proceeded to gather his son’s well-worn clothes that were strewn everywhere. For a while, he started in rapturous concentration at his son's little clothes, miniatures of his own: pale kidskin breeches, delicate silver tunics, undershirt and underpants, scarves of all colours, knitted gloves and shiny boots. He couldn’t help but huff upon finding a pair of slippers made of maroon felt with rope soles, which rendered his energetic son into a stealthy prankster for they cushioned his every step. He placed these things with great care on the sofa along with the child's set of droll toys: various stuffed animals, an elk, a deer, a mangled orc, a small, squishy spider made of black cloth which happened to miss several legs and a pale haired doll bearing a crown made of wood sewn directly into the puppet’s unfortunate head - Thranduil was sure the thing was meant to represent him, the king of the Woodland Realm. He picked the doll and started mending one of its loose button eyes. Whoever made this for Legolas had at least a flair for details. The eyes were a particular shade of icy blue, and shining like mother-of-pearl into the light.

At last, out of nothing better to do, he got out of his damp clothes and descended into the pool, submerging himself completely. His hair turned the colour of wet fields in the summer, darker and more nuanced. His muscles relaxed and he started massaging single-handedly his neck and what he could reach of his back muscles. It was nights like these that he wished for someone but the mere thought made him feel tongue-tied. He couldn’t, not with Legolas in here. It would be like betraying him. His mouth filled with a terrible taste, bitter and poisoned.

He was still missing her, even though he had barely known her. Their time together had been short. Too short before the last remnants of the evil of Angmar devastated her. They’ve searched for her everywhere and all they could find was darkness. She was but a memory that his mind refused to let go of. It was the truth, but he could not replace her. He redirected his attention to the knots in his back. Asking for a servant to relieve him of this pressure might lead to something entirely else and Thranduil was scared at the prospect of giving in so easily, too easily, as if his short marriage to the mother of his son meant... nothing. They've been together barely two years before Mandos took her soul into his custody. It was too short a time, a speck of dust into eternity. Even the time he spent with Legolas surpassed their time together as husband and wife, and Legolas would be five in April, the month of unfurled leaves and tree blossoms.

 His son was always by his side, in his lap when he was on the throne, in his arms when they ate in the great hall with the rest of his court, in his study, fumbling through tedious lessons on Quenya and history, or running amock the kitchens with Galion, his wife and a horde of servants which would supervise the child's every movement, except for when the little one would evade their searching eyes and disappear in the gardens, rousing up the whole court, from scribe to soldier, for they were all directly interested in the well-being of their Woodland-born prince. Adored by all was an understatement, for Legolas proved to be the youngest inhabitant of his kingdom and Thranduil, the loneliest single-father among both Sindar and Silvan folk.

Meditatively, he continued his ablutions, opening a bottle of dense liquid which gleamed pearlescent in his hand and started working it slowly into his scalp, lathering his long mane thoroughly. He rinsed a couple of times and upon ascending the stairs from the pool, he focused again on his muscles, working into the skin the oil, a  soothing and warming Silvan remedy which smelled faintly of rosemary.  
His late night ablutions finished, Thranduil donned a plush grey robe, then headed for his most comfortable chair by the hearth and poured himself some wine. His legs were splayed lazily, creamy expanses of unmarred skin. He revelled in the feel of gray furs, out of habit smoothing the lush surface, his toes prodding and dancing in the heated comfort. He stared into the fire while slowly sipping his wine, the most potent Dorwinion. Dark red, it stained his pale lips.  He wished for sleep but his call fell on deaf ears. Irmo was attending to his son’s dreams tonight.

The room heated to a most agreeable temperature and once more, he checked on Legolas, palming his forehead and his cheeks, fearful for once that his inebriated breath would upset the sleeping child and then he would have to explain his inability to continue sleeping for longer than a few hours and thus make out of his child a reluctant companion to his restless nights. He shouldn’t know restlessness. He shouldn’t know worry. But his child would become restless and would worry, for Thranduil knew how much his son loved him. He would accompany him on his sleepless night, would ask for his father to tell him story after story and would evade sleep in the cleverest way. The only difference was that Legolas would not want to drink wine but to play, as full of energy as in the daylight, and the Elvenking was usually reticent about running around the chamber at such ungodly an hour, playing hide and seek or building towers and turrets out of wooden cubes or impersonating the wild creatures of the forest. He would always go along with whatever his son would ask him and he would never ask to be something else than what Legolas wanted him to be. Rare were the times Legolas asked him to impersonate the timid deer or the majestic stag. He would often ask his ada to play pretend at being the blood-thirsty wolf, or the terrible dragon and when in a particularly good mood, he would bashfully ask his ada to tell him about orcs and spiders, trolls, werewolves and vampires.

More than often, Thranduil would hide his disbelief at his son’s demand to either pretend to ride a beast or to slay one. Then, as an afterthought, Legolas shouldn't have notions of the giant spiders at the tender age of five, but that was almost impossible in a kingdom such as Mirkwood these days.

He became drowsy and complacent in his comfortable seat. Taking his time, he began dressing. He took one of his warmest tunics, an elegantly tailored silver piece with fur-lined hood and buttoned up slowly, languidly. He then gathered his still damp mane into a braid and drew the hood over his head. The child slept peacefully, the room was warm, lit by numerous candles, and the guards were near. He exited assured that nothing would change in his absence.

Thranduil left the room, looking back a second time, committing everything to memory, making sure he would find it just as he left it, with his precious son sleeping peacefully. He would ask one of his personal guards to call upon an elf maiden to stay with Legolas through his sleep. On his way out of his suite, he found the guards on duty and smirked when his eye caught the bottle of the sparkling wine. He acknowledged them and he surprised himself when they offered him a full, fragrant cup. He took it, smelling from time to time the liquid which would remind the elves of the last days of summer, of gathering the fruits from the land and the forest, while meandering along the cavernous hallways. He passed more guards and some of his personal servants. It took him a while to emerge into the winter cold and found himself into an inner garden lightened by well-concealed lamps and strolled, unconcerned, as his feet left marks on the fresh snow. This was a well-guarded secret. Secured on one side by the enchanted river and by a heavily guarded area, the garden was one of his favourite places.

Everything was white and pure, even in the dark of the night. The sound of crunching snow under his boots was exquisite. His heart already leaped with joy at the thought of playing with Legolas tomorrow, thinking how the cold would make his soft cheeks blush like a ripe apple in the ardent sun and how his nose would be cold and wet against his neck as he would take his son into his arms, allow him to snuggle close to him, then twirl him around, the world a whirlwind around them. He took a generous swig and noticed how the snow barely reached his calf but it was mainly because of the clever architecture of the palace for if he left the stronghold, he was sure to find out it was reaching his knee and the sweet, timid current of air would transform into a howling wind, carrying the sound of the horrors waiting beyond the walls.

There were birds hiding in the branches, some sleeping, others watching. A flock of sparrows in the dogwood shrub, their bodies fluffed and round, their beaks under their wings, sitting close to each other, an adorable image of close-knit community. Up in the walnut, a great horned owl was hooting and the nearby avian predators were making shrill calls to one another. A small, white coloured one was perched on a lamp, its claws securing a dead furry creature, while the beak was busy tearing flesh. Thranduil arched his brow as if challenging the bird of prey and watched transfixed as the snowy owl ate its meal.

He walked round and round the garden busying himself with the metal goblet, sometimes watching its content reach the brim but never allowing any drop to spill. The food was scarce in winter and wine was more than precious for it warmed the elves and made their limbs tingly and warm if they drank enough and their head spin, if they overindulged, which happened only during the festival of stars.  
On his way, down the string of pebbled stairs, the Elvenking met another guard, already making a path through the snow.

Thranduil stopped and offered him the goblet. A gloved hand reached him and hot breath warmed his face.

"Thank you, your majesty."

His name was Feren, a young elf with an open face and soft brown eyes. His mouth was cheeky, insolent and now occupied with the wine. Thranduil watched him unwaveringly. He was but thirty, not someone that could understand him at all. Feren looked at him with meaningful eyes. Definitely not.

This was not the time for thinking about it. It was true that things were quieter now, the wind harsher, the forest impenetrable to even the most relentless attackers and everyone was drawn to a warm hearth and a cosy bed. Most of the betrothed elves were now on leave or in the stronghold, guarding or simply writing reports, while the ones without a mate were out at the borders keeping watch, patrolling, slaying spiders and hopefully enjoying each other's company while the nights were quiet. 

Feren's hair escaped his pale cloak and it was now dancing in the cold wind. Thranduil's hand almost darted to the stray strands of hair but stopped in time. It would be disastrous to allow Feren's infatuation to materialize. He was a smitten Silvan youth, fresh out of master Tinel’s lessons and without any clear talent for swordfight or close combat, which the wood needed more than anything. He was a promising elf, though, and good with a bow, as any other  Silvan but nothing more.

Thranduil's icy eyes assessed the youth once more and he dismissed him gently.  
Feren was too young and foolish, his heart impulsive and fickle, not strong enough to resist sorrow, longing or depth of passion. And Thranduil was all those things, multiplied by the number of Elbereth's stars. Feren was a flickering flame while Thranduil was the incandescent spark. He could wait. He could wait forever, cold, untouched and lonely.

 As he started walking the curve of a low hill, he looked back to Feren, who was now shovelling the last snowy path. Of course, these were times when he couldn't afford himself the luxury of a heavy heart, although he was still mourning and longing for his late wife, because more important than his heavy heart was his kingdom and his only son, Legolas.

He lost himself in the cold greenery of the coniferous shrubs, of the yew hedges and the twisted pines. Mirkwood needed a king, not a widower. He would see his people grow and bear children, well-fed and safe, he would fight for them, for they were now his family. He would fight for his son. His eyes watered. How hot were the tears on a cold winter night! How lonely his nights but for the time spent watching over his heir. Thranduil became many things since his wife’s tragic death, a teacher and a healer, a gentle friend and a fierce fighter. He stopped being a lover but he often dreamed. Non-descript warm bodies and hungry mouths. Hair as pale as wheat or as red as the incandescent coals. A body, heat, the passion of closeness and upon waking, his release, cold on his stomach, his bed empty, his mind reeling. Then loneliness.

Thranduil shuddered at those thoughts. Lust seemed so far away these days, his desires as distant as the stars. He strayed from the perfect path and headed through deep snow into the small hedge of young birches. Their ashen bark was bright in the night for there were no lamps. Here, he could hear the wind from the forest and that from the mountain. He thought of his troops patrolling now. He hoped they were out of harm's way and prayed to the makers of the forest for their lives. He would have them feast on boar and pheasant, then drink the intoxicating wine carrying the memory of summer and eat the rich stew only his Silvan cook could create, and the dry fruity lembas the maidens would make, spread with the sweet, dark honey of the forest, already crystallised.  He would see them sway to the sweet music, drunk on passion, their limbs entangled. Kisses, laughter, a carnal dance. He would watch over them and he would see them into the spring, victorious, alive. There would be fire in their souls and food in their bellies, and with the place of the season, their looks will stir and one of them would keep Feren too preoccupied to be thinking lewdly about their king. He chuckled at the thought, already knowing one of the maidservants would ask for his blessing and that of the wood for their bonding night.

Small movements caught his eye and he stopped breathing as he listened. His heart clenched and pumped faster. "Who's there? Show yourself!" He passed shrubs and young trees, convoluted roots and lowered branches.

Instinctively, his hand drew to his waist but he found nothing there, for he left his sword in his rooms. He remembered the small knife he always kept hidden in his boot and drew it immediately. He heard it again and unsheathed the blade. A shuffling noise, the snow creaking, the frost giving in to the pressure of footsteps. He headed to the margin of his pretend-forest and focused on every distracting sound. He called to the guards he knew were patrolling outside and they answered. They always walked the perimeter in pairs, well-armed and ready to strike at the first sign of an enemy.

Ambarwen and Thalaith answered him swiftly. He exhaled assuredly, but the unnatural feeling didn't subside. He paced as if attracted by something, the lapels of his grey tunic catching on small twigs and dried leaves. The bramble, as cruel as ever. The back of his hand was scratched by their thorns. Blood dripped into the luminous snow. He moved further. His fine hearing did not betray him. He closed his eyes and he focused on the sounds around him. A squirrel was hurrying away towards the bushes, frozen twigs were creaking, an owl flew from a branch and dove near the ground. Dried berries shedding some snow, a small nocturnal rodent scouting the grounds. The owl catching it. Foolish, tender creatures playing the game of life and death. 

But then he heard something else. The trees were whispering. Silently singing a swishing melody of longing and sadness, as if remembering. The hedge betrayed its newest inhabitant. A being of deep loneliness and damnation. Dark and light, mingling, far from the twisted and discordant scream of the shadow creatures. A song in shades of grey. A song of delicate valour, one still searching for its purpose. To his right, the notes were more powerful, so Thranduil dimmed his fëa's light and made his step as inconspicuous as the wind. Something was there and the fact that it escaped the sharp eyes of the patrol was nagging at him. To his relief, he didn’t detect great danger. The trees would have known. They would have whispered to the elves and they would have searched. Somehow, they have been conspiring and hid something from him. This astounded him.

 His curiosity peaked as he advanced.

The song was clear, only when his ears focused solely on it. It mingled in the background with the voices of the trees. But where they were talking of a summer long gone, this one was aching for something else and the acute loneliness of that touched something in Thranduil's heart. The juniper bushes were whispering a mocking song. They were disrespectful to everyone. Having no place and no rest, no life and no death. Wandering purposeless. Oathbreaker, they whispered. Last of your kind. Betrayer. The twisted Hawthorn seemed to cry along the stranger’s song. A tree with a forever bleeding heart. The holly was conciliatory, in self-sacrificing tender notes. His trees were all attuned to this creature’s wailing soul.

Thranduil listened closely for the juniper rarely would sing its own songs. It should rather steal any piece of novelty from others if the wind allowed. This was not its song. He could not see but in hearing that sadness and the self-disparaging notes, he bristled, shivered. A darkness covered him yet it wasn't the same of Dol Guldur. It wasn't that of the great dragon or that of the armies of orcs and fell creatures. He reacted with fear and swished the knife around him. His eyesight wasn't as sharp as that of the Silvans', yet it was sharp enough. He knew he detected it, whatever it was. Everything around him shouted at the intruder. Not in rage but pity. How come that he felt it stronger than before yet the form of this intruder was not revealed to him. His hands extended to the snowy hedges with chilled fingertips. The knife was secured in his right hand, close to the palm, ready.

Thranduil grew frustrated. He felt it. Felt the song carried on by the crawling, jesting junipers and the delicate, deadly yew. "Reveal yourself!" He pushed past the convoluted roots of the crawling coniferous bushes. Something was very close. He concentrated on the song and interfered in its harmony, prying, searching. The intruder should reveal to him.

 Suddenly, something caught his eye. It was imperceptible at first, yet in a moment, he identified it as quiet, subdued breathing. A cloak imitating leaves, covered in snow, the best camouflage he knew to exist. A perfect cloak, a most treacherous and life-saving instrument. One of the great elven creations. He'd seen those in Lorien, worn among the grey scouts. The fabric changing its color, mimicking the environment, rendering its user almost invisible. Almost, he sniggered. And he couldn't help a laugh bubbling up in his chest. He huffed in annoyance, having detected the form of the man, an elf, crouched mute on the cold ground, trapped by snow, probably numb by now. 

"Reveal yourself, I tell you once more!" There was an edge to Thranduil's voice and it didn't resemble an order as much as a threat. Having detected the contours of what could be a face obstructed by frozen hands, he clasped at the fabric, pulling it off entirely. In a moment's breath, his knife was at the neck of the intruder in no time. A gaunt body, dressed all in black except for the ever-changing colour of his cloak. The face was obstructed by long, wavy hair. Wrapped in black leather, a gloved hand with long, dangerous fingers skimming over the hilt of a sword. Encrusted with rubies, it gleamed like the eyes of a wolf.he’d seen that star before. He knew he had. It was the talk of legends and myths.The other glove was missing. The fingers were curled and freezing. Skeletal hands. Too pale, dying. Blue, violet veins still pumping life into this wretch. Shallow breathing, a pained face.

  
He was an impressive sight but underclothed for the treacherous weather. What kind of man would hide his pain and injuries like that, consuming more energy in suppressing the shivering of his body under the tight tunic? A proud, merciless one, he thought in passing. 

"Get up," he motioned with the knife. The elf did so, with great difficulty. It was like watching one of the ancient tree herders, one of the Ents. He heard the bones crunching, tendons giving in, muscles protesting but it was the snow and the dried twigs around him. The elf was silent, like an assassin. He was just shadow on this earth. Thranduil could not risk his kingdom and his son by foregoing caution when faced with an intruder, even a wounded one. He acted quickly before his Telerin compassion took control of his sense of self-preservation.

"I told you to reveal yourself. Why don't you?" He waited. His face was stern, calm, kingly, his apparent tranquillity hiding a dangerous nature that had been imprinted on him through countless battles and the constant threat of the dark enemy.

Slowly, with apparently steady hands, the elf revealed his face, tugging at the frayed fabric around his mouth and nose – a threadbare stole covering his face from harsh wind and icy snow. It must have been his only protection against the cold. Pity filled Thranduil. The elf before him did not look him in the eye but revealed dark cherry hair and a pale, angular face. He was bruised, heavily. A look not unbecoming of him. Brushing a hand through the hair, he obsequiously showed his frozen, pointed ears. They were violet with cold, the pointy tip of one covered in dry blood. His left side of the jaw was all dried blood. A fight had taken place to injure him so, but where?

The lip was split and the corners of the mouth were red. His eyes were downcast. Thranduil could not see them properly.This was no Silvan. Too tall, too hard, too… otherworldly.

The eight-pointed star. A sigil as ancient as the moon and the sun. Thranduil didn’t want to think of the Noldor. This could not be. Thranduil erased the thought from his mind.

 Thranduil knew each and every one of the woodland elves by looks and by their name. He'd known two-quarters of his army ever since they were but dormant Starlights in their mother's womb and had blessed in person all the marriages that have taken place in his realm. This elf was not from here.   
He was a tall one, compared to others of his kind, rising above Thranduil. A descendant of Elu Thingol himself, Thranduil was pale, tall and a Sinda in all aspects but he could not compare with this alien creature, an elf born out of myth whose kind was long gone, if not extinguished from these lands, from Arda herself. His eyes roamed calculatingly over the stranger's straining body, the lack of light, the distressed notes in his inner song, the little signs of a deep and life-threatening suffering. This one looked as if he were but a remnant of an age, long passed into history, ancient but weakened by something feeding parasitically on the very light of his soul.

As much as he hated for his land to be infiltrated by strangers, Thranduil could not help but want to carry this wretched soul to safety. No elven life should be left to waste.Thranduil called and several elves came running, their bows and arrows at the ready. They regarded the whole scene suspiciously, rapidly taking control.  
"I found him lying in the hedges!" The king's voice was not upset but underlined with a slight reproach. The stranger shivered visibly and ignored the arrows pointed towards him. He could barely stand upright and upon seeing those, one of the Silvan guards, Tathrendir, supported his back, keeping him in a standing position.

A look of confusion graced the guard's face.

"He weighs almost nothing," he reported to his king. There he was, as tall as a young birch, slender, taut with strings of muscle yet beaten, weathered by the unforgiving climate. His eyes snapped and bore into Thranduil’s, the light of a blue star, expanding, ready to burst like a supernova. His eyes were as alive as anyone’s yet they were glimmering with the silence of long-suffering. Hunger. That’s what it was. A hunger, inextinguishable from his soul, permeating everything, tainting it, grabbing at it.

One of the Noldor. Accursed Noldor! The Teleri of the Greenwood have been forgotten among their kin who sometimes, quite righteously perceived them to be more dangerous and less wise. They were wild folk but united in song and a love of all living beings. They were kind and compassionate where their other relatives, such as the ones having seen the light of the lamps, were rather – surprisingly- cold and scheming.

Thranduil and his people celebrated the life of the First Born and they could not simply watch as one perished before them. The stranger leaned his entire form on Tathrendir, the night watch guard. He fumbled and upon unclasping his traveling sack from his shoulder, he dropped something on the ground.  
Without an order, he continued doing this, despoiling himself of his weapons, which were numerous and cleverly hidden from the untrained eye. His cooperation was not necessarily something they expected but it made things easier for him. His cold bitten lips moved and the sound was raspy, dying. He wanted to say something, struggled the words out, but they came out gurgled and exhaled, nothing intelligible to their ears. Finally, the stranger’s feet gave in, and he collapsed in the arms of the guard. Only his eyes were hard and challenging as if he derided the state he was found in. This elf, this shattered man, masked himself with pride, disdain, coldness. A shiver passed through the king. A hard, unyielding man. His eyes could be as unforgiving as starlight as well. He could show this stranger. A challenge for a challenge.

How long would he be able to hold Thranduil’s gaze? Moments passed. The stranger lowered his eyelids. Strong, but then… weak.

Thranduil watched him painting a picture of defeating ambition, and for a moment when no breath or gesture left his body, he feared that the stranger's light has been permanently extinguished. Without further thinking, he pressed his warm fingers to the other's neck to feel for a pulse. The Noldo was unconscious, beyond reverie but he was alive.

„Aran, he’s losing light,”Elros, an older guard, said. Thranduil could see that and the knowledge did not sit well with him. A great restlessness crawled into his heart,  losing this stranger to the fates on such a dark winter this night would bring the curses of Dol Guldur to life. "I fear he came here to die." He said somberly, under a mask of calm. "However, in this dark, cold night, we shall try and ask the Forest for her benevolence. Mayhap he will live. Life is precious to us, and this one's eternal life shouldn’t be discarded so easily." The guards carried him like one would a frozen corpse. Cadvestor, a servant, gathered the stranger's things and awaited his King's orders. "We have a long night ahead of us. Send word to the next watchers to patrol the grounds. I fear we shall not sleep tonight."

  
In the healing wing underground, they laid the stranger to rest. Disrobing him of his black attire, they discovered the main source of his terrible state: an encounter with the spawn of Ungoliant. His torso was blackened with poison, its tendrils gaining more and more ground as they marred his skin. Several days must have passed since he'd been bitten and it was nothing short of a miracle that he was alive.

***

 A couple more days and they were on the cusp of the winter solstice. Legolas’ favorite season, second to the rites of spring, when his begetting day was to be celebrated. Thranduil moves with a purpose back to his suite. He needs to check upon Legolas, to see that his son is safe, asleep, untroubled but thoughts of the stranger interfere. He shudders, his muscles clenching and unclenching. His gait is hurried, distressed. He passes several guards and by the time he enters the suite he can’t even remember their names or their faces. There, on the four poster bed, under a velvet canopy, his son lays sleeping peacefully. Noiselessly, he unclasps his cloak and heads to the bed. Feels the child’s forehead with his wrist. Is that a fever?

Legolas stirs in his sleep. His fingers grasping at thin air. Thranduil offers him his hand. Take me, I’m all yours. An unpleasant dream, perhaps? Missing the mother he never knew? What memories does he have of her, apart from her autumn colored hair and her full, ripe breast while feeding him? Nothing, there is nothing. He watches entranced as the child dreams on. The room is overheating. He arranges Legolas on the bed again, untucking him for comfort. What was he thinking, leaving his child like this? He’s burning up. And where is the elf maid? She slips into the room from behind a curtain, carrying a bowl of water.

His eyes are ice. He knows she can feel it. It’s the way she almost misses a step and her stutter. She approaches and climbs on the other side, a wet towel in her hand. He notices how the dress stretches over her bulging stomach. Of course, she was with child. He couldn’t just yell at her. “The room is too hot, your majesty.” Of course, how foolish of him to leave his son like that. “I’ll leave you to it, Tauriel.” He rises, contrite. “You should have your rest. Why didn’t the other come in your stead?” Thranduil asks, he decides he really wants to know, since Tauriel is the beloved of one of his best captains.

“She feared she would raise your ire, your majesty.”Of course. How could he forget, that some of them would fear him, despite his efforts to include them? He changes his tunic with a practical one, downs another goblet of wine and with a nod, and heads back to the infirmary. He needs to untangle this mess before it gets to him.

***

He writhes in pain and it’s almost beautiful the way his face contorts, arched eyebrows twisting, mouth gaping and gasping. He’s lying on a hard bed, narrow enough to give the healers access. The master healer barks orders as if he’s firing arrows. Somehow, the rest of them can feel it. Death is near for this one. Unfortunate Noldo. Maybe that’s why they don’t seem to try too hard. Marble white flesh, dark hair, the color of black cherries in the dead of summer. His mid-section is cleared of fabric, they left him in his breeches, no boots. His feet bear the brunt of cold and a maid diligently spreads a healing salve and then wraps them in cloth. Knowing the agony he must endure, Thranduil is surprised at the lack of words from the stranger.

“Is he mute?” He wonders aloud, startling his master healer from cleaning the horrible pestilential gash on the elf’s side. Thranduil approaches and examines him with distant eyes. Where is his fight? Where is his fire? The skin on his torso is a horrible hue of yellow and purple. The smell is enough to want him to flee the scene. In a ceramic bowl at the foot of the bed, he sees what the Noldo must have used as wrapping for his wound. It’s unclean, unsanitary. “Burn this,” he orders a servant who just brought in more hot water. “We’ve cleaned most of the damaged tissue,” his healer says as he works minutiously on the elf’s skin. “His organs might be affected. We gave him an infusion of athelas, bathed the wound in raw honey, gave him a draught to ease his pain but…” He frowns as if it’s understandable that the elf won’t survive. “We’ve done all we could. It’s been festering for days, he hasn’t eaten, he’s dehydrated. The heart beats too fast… It’s only a matter of time.”

“Time.”Thranduil nods, ascertaining and balancing every piece of information in his mind. An apprentice cleans his face with a small towel dipped in the hot water. It comes out clean but he does it anyway. With the other hand, he untangles the hair.if he watches the Noldo from this standpoint and avoids looking at his torso, Thranduil could swear he only witnesses a man having just a terrible nightmare. A bruised man but he knows bruises heal.

He looks into empty space for a long time, completely ignoring the master healer’s mutterings as he dresses the wound. A hand clasps at his shoulder. Small, delicate fingers. There’s an amber ring he recognizes. “Tauriel?”

Then all his thoughts go to Legolas. Is he safe? Does he sleep? “Your majesty,” she says in a pleasant, comforting voice and gets nearer, her warmth spreading through him as well. Mindful of her heavy pregnant belly, he turns around, searching her eyes. He shouldn’t doubt Tauriel. “Legolas is safe, his nursemaid is with him. She was afraid she displeased you and asks you to forgive her for not showing up when you asked.” He sighs. Of course, Sarnwen would choose the most inopportune moment for her nightly flirting with the head of the smithies. It would make him happy to unite a Sindar couple but she had a duty to his son first.

“Legolas is asleep and well,” she reassures him. "He must be having a particularly good dream, my king.” Her smile is enigmatic, to say the least. Thranduil pretends to be unaffected.

“I thank you, Tauriel,” he answers and his kindness returns at the good news. However, her eyes linger on his face. It's understanding. She spares a glance at the unfortunate dying elf on the bed.

“You know the hands of a king have healing powers, your majesty. It would be a good thing to try it on this unfortunate creature.”  Her eyes carry an odd light. She rarely gives advice, especially to her king. “Aren’t you tired, Tauriel?”

“I’ll be tired when I’m dead, Aran. This little one keeps me awake enough" Her hand rests protectively on her pregnant belly. "She’s feisty, like her father, I can tell. When I'm in the woods, she seems to calm down. There, she listens to the trees.”

“How would you know?” He asks anyway.

“I just do. She’s a daughter of the forest. Just like me.”

“Rest, Tauriel. The captain will hate me for weeks if he finds out you’ve lost sleep over this.” “I’ll sleep when I’m dead, Aran.” She gives him a sombre look, and for an instant, Thranduil reads defiance.

The master healer starts cleaning his small, mobile table, placing the instruments for proper disinfection. He’s a Sinda through and through silver stars are his eyes, moonlight his hair. Unlike Thranduil, his countenance is unguarded, less aristocratic.

“Our work is done here, king Thranduil. Now we wait.” The apprentice healer, a lad of twenty is watching over the Noldo, soothing his forehead with shuddering fingers. Tauriel helps the assistant and the maids, carrying for them water and materials.

“Go to sleep, master healer.” Now, It’s just him and the boy and the flickering torches. The air smells of basil and sage and distilled alcohol, disinfectant, then smoke and the distinctive vapours of athelas. On a nearby shift are laid the Noldo’s possessions. A sheathed heavy broadsword, seven knives, a silver flask, flint and jewellery. He touches the black leather tunic, the torn silk shirt, a leather-bound journal.

At the head of the bed, the boy shifts and dips his towel into the athelas infusion, tracing contours to the stranger’s skin. An unfamiliar feeling creeps over Thranduil. He approaches in long strides and takes the towel from the boy’s inexperienced hands.

“I will do it. You go to the kitchens and eat some. Tell them I said so.”

The boy’s eyes bulge and he starts stuttering into a mangled version of Sindarin. An orphan, Thranduil muses. A sweet-faced Telerin elf with little education but that of the squirrels in the trees and the cycles of nature and the whispers of the oak. Sweet, hazel–eyed, chestnut hair, rosy complexion. His body is not yet filled but that’s because of the scarce ration the master healer allows him. A scrawny, illiterate Telerin boy. “Then rest in Irmo’s embrace, youngling.”

The boy doesn’t move, trembling like a leaf. He unclenches his fingers from the collar of his white tunic and pushes him away, almost barking at him “Go! Leave! What are you waiting for?”

Something dark has overtaken him and the boy must have noticed it for he squeaks and jolts upright almost running from the healing hall. In that moment, Thranduil realises he could have had him pinned to the wall; he could have groped him and twisted his useless little neck if he dared as much as to oppose him. Its as if smoke crawls over his entire body until the whole room focuses only on the sick bed where the Noldo lies gasping and panting in what must have been the throes of agony.

 

Unwelcome images fill his head. Bodies writhing in pain, dying men and children, butchered women. Death. Slaughter. Massacre. The obscure and secret history of the Noldor. Dark desires. Corruption of the soul. Greed, lust, enough hunger for power to kill one's brother. Enough to dispatch of the remains of a whole elven kind into the ocean. Like they were scraps to be fed to the water creatures.Something  disturbingly dark and terribly wrong has entered his realm and it was lying before his very eyes.

  
An elf that killed another elf. It was him, dark of soul but not entirely lost. Thranduil knew in that moment that he needed to save him, even though it seemed impossible. So he walked through the shadows and pulled the Noldo from its clutches, again and again for as long as it took. He poured all his restorative powers and his undying light and for a while, it all felt futile as if he was attempting to save a dead carcas, not a still living creature. However, he did not relent and reached a point when he could not stop himself from overexerting his power.Exhausted, he collapsed on the bed and succumbed to silent sleep. He knew not whether he saved the stranger or not.

***

Morning came into the Mirkwood halls. The light found a crevice and crept in, illuminating through shadows. Legolas awoke and his nurse took him to see his Adar who was abed in his quarters. He looked immensely tired and when Legolas shook his shoulder and tapped his forehead, the king did not wake up.

“Do not wake him.” That's what the always busy healer said, not like the one whom he tried to save last night.

Then, they started whispering and grinding herbs and minerals and Legolas escaped their line of vision and went exploring on his own.He'd been watching the strange man in the house of healing for quite a while. He looked so strange. He'd never seen hair of that colour or a face so stoic like a sculpture of marble. Obviously, he'd been through great danger. His brow relaxed, his mouth opened to gulp air.

To Legolas, this was very fascinating. He'd never watched another sleep before. And this one was so strange! One time he seemed perfectly at peace and then his face would contort in pain, a grimace marring the perfection. Trying to give comfort to him was a natural reaction. He placed his small hand on his forehead and smoothed out the lines of worry. His hair reminded Legolas of the black cherries, dark and luscious and then a light fell onto it just so and it all shone like polished wood. He’d seen that colour before. It was like blood, when mixed with the poison of the evil spider. It frightened him a little but he was the king’s son. He tried to be brave.

He didn't look away and neither did he scream when the stranger's silver eyes opened only to rest precisely on him. He didn't pull away when his arm had been grasped in desperation. Confused, he watched and let it happen. This was his Adar's kingdom. He was safe here, even though this stranger might not be aware of it.  
"Tyelko?" The stranger rasped out, strangled and weak. "Tyelko!" This time, he sounded less surprised, the voice laced with recognition.  
All Legolas could do, was give him a smile and pour all his childish understanding into it.  
The man asked then a stream of questions and Legolas recognised the old, tiresome Quenya his father insisted on teaching him every week. He answered timidly and then switched politely to Sindarin.  
"I am afraid my Quenya isn't that advanced," he said. "Adar insisted I perfect my grammar. My last lesson was on identifying verb tenses."   
The stranger laughed, his eyes changed from the mad gleam to something calmer. He laughed and his eyes sparked. The sound of his laughter spurred Legolas into one of his own. He did so for quite a long time and then laughed some more when he realised the man had been genuinely amused.  
But then Legolas reminded him that he was not some unknown Tyelko, he was the king's only son and he let him know that his Adar was very proud of him, despite his young and fragile age and his poor mastery of Quenya.  
"... And Adar is the greatest ruler that ever lived. He keeps us all safe here. No orc can reach us and the spiders only hide in the forest. Even the enchanted river listens to him and the animals too."  
It didn't take Legolas too long to realize that the stranger wasn't just humouring him. He was genuinely interested in all his stories.  
"... My favourite is the festival of the stars. Adar takes me out in the garden and lets me drink from his miruvor.” He brings him food and drink. Legolas finds water, healing water enchanted by the pale green crystals that surround the caves. He thinks the stranger should be impressed but when he returns, he asks for wine. Legolas huffs. Only his father drinks wine like he does water.

“Won’t your mother be worried if you stay with me all day?” Legolas gives him a dark look. “Naneth is dead.”

“Oh.”

“Shhh… they think you perished.” Legolas giggles. “Or rather very ill.”

“Is that so?”

“Of course. That’s all they’ve been whispering about all morning. Master healer is really upset about my Adar. He’s exhausted himself trying to bring you back but they don’t know that he succeeded.”

“I see.” The smug look is gone. He’s now focused on the collection of dried fruits and bread on the tray. Legolas butters a slice and then hands it to him. “Then I should thank him when I have the chance.”

“Now will you tell me everything I want to know?”

“I will. Ask away.”

The Noldo, now identified as Maglor, satisfies his every curiosity. At least that’s what he’d like to think. It’s mostly stories that Legolas asks for. He is interested about the spider, the orcs, the fell beasts they command. Maglor tells him much more. Legolas brings another pillow and the Noldo props himself into a sitting position. His middle hurts but he knows he’s healing. Faster than they imagined he will.

He asks Legolas for his harp and plays for him the saddest song Legolas has ever heard. “What is this?  It makes me sad. Stop playing.” Legolas knows he should behave himself. This display is not worthy of the prince of the Greenwood. Mirkwood. Anyway… He shouldn’t have torn the harp from Maglor’s hands.

“You do not like it.” Maglor says. It’s not a question but a surprised conclusion to his endeavour.

“I do. It just makes me sad. Reminds me of Adar and Naneth. My heart hurts.”

Maglor watches him with suddenly cold eyes. “Forget the song. I wasn't thinking,” he says remorsefully to Legolas. “I’ll tell you a story about one of my brothers, will you like that?” Legolas nods, momentarily lost for words. "It seems that all this time I have forgotten how to treat a child right. All I remember are stories of death and glory. Blood and gore. Damnation and shame. Nothing that would please you." Maglor pulls himself up on the pillows. The patched wound stings but he suppresses his hiss of pain. “Give me the robe over there and pour me more wine. I shall tell you about my brother Celegorm.”

“Tyelko and his hound?”

“Yes." Maglor's voice is gentle. "The one that is long dead and will never return, consumed by the wraiths of the void for eternity. Like the rest of my brothers. Like my father.” He wraps the robe around himself and Legolas crawls into his lap for story time. “And I look like him?" Legolas asks in a strangled voice.

"Don't be scared, child. You're fair-haired, blue-eyed. Like him... but so unlike him. He was a little beast." Maglor sighs. "Always hunting and pestering the maidens. He ran away with our dear cousin once. Our uncle swore to throttle him. Maybe the void calmed all his fire down. I cannot tell." 

"What is the void? Is it the black thing beyond the stars? Why did they go there?”

“They were sent there after they were killed, there is not one of them who would have gone willingly. What for, you ask...?" He's thinking now, looking at the intricate marble ceiling. "For punishment, I suppose. I don’t know anymore. It all happened because of the Silmarils, you see? And because of the evil one, Bauglir. My father defied the Vala openly but that's another story.” Legolas hums and nods. He is very interested in what Maglor has to say.

 “Won’t your father ask for you?”

“Adar is resting.”

“Then your nurse?”

“She’s not my nurse, she's just a maiden. Sarnwen’s going to marry the head of the chief of the blacksmiths. Sneaks with him into the pantry. Gives him drink and kisses.”

"The pantry?" Maglor laughs in disbelief. "She must be a very naughty elf-maid, then. And you like watching? Spying on your servants?" Maglor is amused but Legolas shakes his head violently. "They're not my servants! And I would never spy on her. She brings me honey and makes toys for me."

"I understand. You love her and don't want her to leave you." Legolas avoids answering that.

“Will you tell me? About your star? The one your father wore on his flag?”

“That’s not my star. That was my father’s. My star is my own.”

“Hm.” Legolas is thinking, threading his fingers through his hair, trying to braid it.

“I’ll do it. You sit and listen,” Maglor says. His voice is soft.

They rest in companionable silence for a while. Maglor is braiding, focused on getting the pleat tight enough. When he finishes, he clears his voice and begins a story about Celegorm and Huan.

**Author's Note:**

> If you wonder about Maglor's hair colour, I thought [Black Cherry](http://www.schwarzkopf.com/content/dam/skus/home/Products/ProductImages/Color/ColorUltime1920x2160/1-3_PD_CoUl_1920x2160.jpg) would look fetching with a pale, square face, perfect. I thought it represented quite well the whole regretful/dying/forsaken Maglor look. Don't forget the black leather!  
> Anyway, I found this. [Funny and tragic.](http://rsxavior.tumblr.com/post/93808279230/fadingintotheforeground-so-i-went-on-the-game)Just what I needed!  
> I looked so hard for *[Maglor aesthetics](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/a7/5e/b2/a75eb247b5a343a7e9644f29914a8acf.jpg)* and found this! Spot on!  
> [IAMX's North Star](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FLmC2hSRwKM) was the inspiration for my title. And no, this was not a song fic. It's full of desperation, helplessness, unworthiness, self-loathing, and regret. "I need help, I've done bad things, and I cannot make them disappear..." I think it says a lot.  
> Anyways... I'll go back to writing [my dirty Mirkwood WIPs](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8840860/chapters/20272429). I've had some qualms lately about doing the whole "fanfiction thing" but nothing that a few nights of sound sleep wouldn't solve.


End file.
